The Peacock and The Swan
by ceridwen-amyed
Summary: "How could you not love someone who comforted you, held your hand as you wept, stroked your hair and kissed you in such a way... What else could you call someone who did that but lover?"


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Disclaimer: Insert standard disclaimer here. Characters you don't recognise from Moulin Rouge belong to themselves and would probably be a tad annoyed if I claimed that they belonged to me.

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Warning: This fic contains fem/fem slash. If you have a problem with a relationship between two people of the same sex, then don't read this fic. Or, if you do still read this, don't flame me for writing a slash fic. :)

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The Peacock and the Swan

~ by ~

Christine

Love is a disease which fills you with the desire to be desired.

Toulouse-Lautrec 

'And diamonds,' continued John eagerly. 'The Schnlitzer-Murphys had diamonds as big as walnuts-'

'That's nothing.' Percy had leaned forward and dropped his voice to a low whisper. 'That's nothing at all. My father has a diamond bigger than the Ritz-Carlton Hotel.' 

From _The Diamond As Big As The Ritz _by_ F. Scott Fitzgerald _

* * * * * * *

Satine sat in twirled a curl around her finger, held it for a moment and then let it spring loose. She ran one finger over her ruby red mouth, feeling its soft curves and dents. Her reflection gazed back at her thoughtfully. Behind her, the other Diamond Dogs danced about and laughed, giggling with one another after a long night. Satine sat alone and ached to be with them, longing to regale them with her encounter with one of the richest men in Paris, giggle over another's story, braid hair, adjust corsets. She was desperate to be a part of the scene and not just watching. Even arguing (like some were doing) would have been welcome. But the only people who ever seemed to approach Satine were men…

She jumped as the great grandfather clock in the corner of the communal dressing room began to chime.

"It's six o'clock!" gasped one dancer, looking quite horrified. "We'll be late!" There was a scramble as half a dozen girls dived for their jewellery boxes, adjusted their hair, fought silently over hats and then raced to the door. In the chaos, Satine was almost pushed to the ground, though whether it was deliberate or not, she couldn't tell. She grunted with annoyance and, grabbing her own meagre jewellery box, she dashed out the door, the other girls already ahead of her.

The average Diamond Dog was generally paid in jewellery and gems; there was always plenty to go around. Prostitution at the Moulin Rouge was a relatively lucrative business: the "scum" of Paris could afford to spare a handful of diamonds, rubies, emeralds - whatever their patron could afford – to throw into a fire, watching the sparks fly and the fire crackle cheerily. The ritual had been started back when the Moulin Rouge had first been built and when the Dogs had first started to make their money. Every Sunday night they would gather in a small room towards the back of the dance hall. It was their own little - almost pagan in its nature - parody of a respectable church service.

Satine didn't usually go: she thought it was a silly superstition. Throwing her fortunes into a fire and making a wish… Why not keep the money and take life into your own hands? But tonight she was tired: the men had been pushy today, always grabbing and clutching and squeezing with their big rough hands. She longed for female companionship, the soft, soft touch of their powdered skin. She was sick of men and their rough skin and biting mouths. Even the meanness of Nini would be a relief from the scratch of an unshaven cheek against her face. 

As she reached the room she could hear the sounds of the girls inside talking and laughing uproariously. She was late. Without pausing, she put her hand firmly on the door handle and wrenched it open.

The room was dark: only the fire and an oil lamp lit its corners. All Satine could make out of the occupants were their bright eyes and wicked looking teeth as they chattered. They all turned as she entered and watched her shut the door quietly.

"Well," came a voice from a corner. Nini leant forward in the broken armchair she was sat in and grinned cat-like at Satine. "Hello the new girl!" There were titters from some of the women but Satine ignored them easily, slipping into the only empty chair, next to a Veteran.

It was widely known that there were three classes of Diamond Dog at the Moulin Rouge: there were the Pups, the girls who had just arrived in Montmartre and at the Moulin Rouge, the innocents. Their eyes were wide and trusting, believing whatever the others said. Satine was technically a Pup, being the new girl at the Rouge, but her face had never had the open, docility of the Pups: she was already too well groomed, too hardened to be a Pup. But she didn't fit into any other group. She was an outcast.

She had thought that she would get on well with the Queens; so named, not because they ruled the Moulin Rouge (although they seemed to do that as well), but because their expressions had moved from the gentle naivety of the Pups to the hard, cunning expression of cat. But after taking one look at Satine, Nini seemed to have hated the girl with an almost breathtaking vehemence and quickly put the other Queen's off from getting too intimate with her. Satine had no idea what she had done to incur such wrath, nor was she much inclined to find out why: Nini didn't seem to be the type of person she necessarily wanted to know well.

The Veterans were the oldest Diamond Dogs at the Rouge. They had an air of faded beauty and glamour floating around their slim bodies, a grace in the way they held their heads that Satine greatly admired. She hoped that if she ever reached the status of Veteran she would look that sophisticated and elegant. Or maybe it was the dignity of the age they had lived in. The Queens at the moment all seemed to be gossipy and back stabbing. _Perhaps they will be remembered for that_, she thought as Nini and Arabia let out huge whoops of laughter.

"I wouldn't mind them, if I were you," said a husky voice beside Satine. She jumped and turned to the black Veteran sat next to her. Her eyes looked like brilliant emeralds, flashing against her dark skin. She smiled pleasantly and something in that smile made Satine shiver; not with fear, but something else… Something that made her hot and flustered and all too aware of the sharpness of the older woman's teeth. The glamour and elegance Satine admired… This woman radiated it like a sun, a hot, smoky air that burnt through Satine and filled her with the lilac smell of the woman's perfume. "They always like to tease the new girl," she continued, glancing at Nini. She turned back to Satine and smiled. "They'll leave you alone soon enough."

"I can take care of myself," said Satine, the timbre of her voice low. The woman laughed softly; Satine had an idea that her name was something unusual_... _Ari?_ Like you can talk about strange names, _Satine, she thought ruefully.

"I'm sure you can, Satine," she said, patting the younger girl's arm absently. Satine stared at her: how did she know her name? She was about to ask, when a sudden hush fell over the room. A Queen Satine didn't know stood up and began jangling the few jewels she had in her hand. She smiled at the room thoughtfully before turning to the fire.

"I wish…" she began. There was a pause and then she grinned widely. "I wish that Monsieur Mozzerella (a regular at the Moulin, famous for his love of cheese) will ask me to marry him!" There was a shout of laughter from the girls as the Queen triumphantly threw her handful into the fire. The flames flickered and there was a brilliant final flash from the jewels before they were surrounded by flames and obscured. Another girl stood, and with much less ceremony, threw in a handful of what looked like rubies wishing for "enough money to buy mama a new piano!"

__

Of course, thought Satine cattily, _you could have used those jewels to get the piano. Or do you know that they're fake? Is your patron not as rich as he likes to make out?_

And so it went on. One by one, the Diamond Dogs rose, announced their wish and threw in their jewels. The fire seemed to be dying now, sagged by the weight of worth that had been thrown into it. A warm hand touched Satine's arm and Satine knew from the fever that suddenly seemed to sear from the other's palm through to her bones, that it was Ari (it was as good a name as any). A breath touched Satine's cheek and a sweetly husky voice whispered, "You're up, dear."

Satine rose to her feet, clutching her jewellery box tightly; at the same time Nini strode to the fireplace. She sneered at Satine openly and tossed the diamonds she held up into the air, catching them again deftly.

"I wish," she said slowly. She hesitated, looking from the fire to Satine slowly. Her mouth twisted into a cat-like smile, although to Satine it seemed more like a grimace. "I wish," said Nini again, looking directly at Satine, "for a diamond the size of this room!" She flung her diamonds into the fire and the girls whooped and cheered at the audacity of her wish. Nini raised her eyebrows at Satine, who had been at the Moulin long enough to know that this was a challenge. She walked woodenly towards the fire, trying to ignore the cat calls, Nini's laugh, but above all the burning gaze of two emerald eyes boring into her back. She stared at the fire blankly. What could she wish for? There were so many things… A warm room, fine clothes, money, getting out of this place… A clear image flashed into her mind: a clear, cold glittering palace, winking in the sun. Delicate and indestructible, as tall as the sky and spreading as far as the eye could see… Satine raised her closed hand, still looking at the flames. She glanced up at Nini and curled her lip when she saw the Queen sneer.

"I wish," she said in a voice clear and loud enough to penetrate the thick air, "for a… a diamond the size of the Moulin Rouge!" With a flick of her wrist, the diamonds sailed into the fire. They sparked and the fire roared, illuminating Satine's bright hair and flushed cheeks. The girls screamed with laughter and nudged Nini, who's wish seemed paltry compared to _that_. Satine turned to Nini and smiled smugly, raising her eyebrow. Whatever game she and Nini played, Satine had won this round.

The girl's were rising now, stretching, still giggling over the evening's entertainment. They filed noisily from the room as Satine retrieved her jewellery box from under her seat. Nini paused at the door, glaring at the new girl who had dared to show her up. She made no move towards Satine though: a Veteran was standing beside Satine. She gave Nini a warning look and even Nini still had enough respect for the Veterans to know when she was to keep her mouth shut. She glared meanly at them both before spinning on her heel and marching out of the room.

Satine straightened up, finding herself face to face with Ari. She froze, staring wide eyed at the woman in front of her. _Aramanta_… She remembered now, as clearly as she remembered her own birthday; that was the woman's name. They were alone in the room. Aramanta smiled at Satine fondly, as though they were sisters and tucked a loose curl behind Satine's ear. She inhaled sharply, smelling the scent of their perfume mingling like flowers in a garden.

"You have lofty ambitions," said Aramanta at last, her voice trembling slightly, "for one so young. But then again," she sighed, looking wistfully at Satine, "you are a pretty one, Satine."

"How do you know my name?" croaked out Satine. Her muscles seemed to be locked in place: a part of her wanted to run and yet another, stronger part wanted to stay close to this soft elegant creature before her. Aramanta shrugged, the gesture looking as graceful as a dance on her slim frame.

"I make a point of knowing people's names. It comes in handy sometimes." Satine started to say something else but Aramanta pressed her finger against Satine's lips. She dragged her fingertip down, parting Satine's lips, and finally, Satine recognised the hot flush in her cheeks and what it meant. When Aramanta dropped her finger, Satine took a deep breath. And when Aramanta leant towards her, Satine closed her eyes.

She expected her lips to be soft, gentle; more of a caress than a kiss. It was harsher than that though, more demanding; the older woman plainly wanted more than a simple touch. Satine timidly responded to the kiss, shocked at the flood of – what? Desire? Fear? A feeling so blissful it made her want to cry. Aramanta's hand stroked Satine's hair, a gesture that seemed both maternal and loving: the way a lover would touch her. A smooth, powdered cheek brushed Satine's, the scent of perfume combining with their breath: lilacs and peppermint, flowers in black soil and the hard, clean smell of new corset bone. Satine sighed, relishing the other woman's touch, so different from the rough possessiveness of the men she had been with. No grubby hands fumbling with her skirts, just the gentle weight of a palm against her back. Just the simple bliss of being wanted and wanting the other person in return.

Satine raised her hand and touched Aramanta high up on her cool cheek, totally free from stubble. It felt like the other woman was breathing a new life into Satine's tired body and soul and Satine wondered dizzily if Aramanta was feeling the same way.

Aramanta pulled away and smiled almost coyly at Satine. She took hold of Satine's wrist and lowered her hand, kissing the back of it lightly. "Goodnight Satine," she whispered, stepping back into the shadows, letting their fingers interlock briefly before sliding out of Satine's grasp. She heard the door open and close softly and Satine was left alone in the room. She stood for a moment, her breath coming out in little gasps. She didn't quite trust herself to move. After a while, she shook her head and walked slowly, head bent like a woman in a storm, out of the room and away from its bright, all-seeing fire.

* * * * * * *

A month passed, and again Satine was sitting in the communal dressing room, looking at her reflection. But it was a very different looking reflection to the one of a pale, pensive girl a month beforehand. This girl was green, wearing a glittering green bodice, green fishnet tights and sparkling green shoes. Her hair was scraped back into a loose bun, strands of hair falling over the green mask that covered her eyes and nose. The most incredible thing about this girl's costume however was the tail of peacock feathers trailing behind her. At the moment they were neatly folded behind her back, but at the touch of a little spring concealed on her hip they would spring wide open, framing her with royal blue and emerald feathers.

__

Really, she thought whilst securing an emerald hairpin by her ear, _Harold can be quite ingenious when he wants to be_. He'd been delighted by her suggestion for her costume and had immediately busied himself designing the spring mechanism. She'd been flattered that the proprietor of the Moulin Rouge had taken such a personal interest in her, but then, she'd always been on good terms with Harold.

Satine dropped her hands into her lap and gazed at the colourful creature she had become in her reflection. Tonight was Montmartre's Annual Street Party, a celebration that had only been started about five years ago by Harold Zidler himself. The party started off at the Moulin Rouge and then spilled out onto the streets at some unspecified point in the evening. Tonight, Harold had explained to the girls, was going to be spectacular. The costumes were extravagant and beautifully made: as Satine stood up, she no longer felt like a woman but like some kind of fairy. Indeed, the entire dressing room seemed to be filled with glittering bodies and fancy head-dresses. The usual quiet concentration of the Diamond Dogs getting ready for an evening of work had been replaced by the excited prattle of little girls getting ready for their first birthday party. Satine laughed and clapped her hands in excitement: tonight was going to be _fun_. They would dance and sing, and there were no patrons tonight, no sleeping with strange men. _Unless of course_, thought Satine, eyeing some of the girl's giggling faces, _we _want_ to_. 

She couldn't wait any longer: she wanted to get away from this stuffy room and find somewhere quiet to try and calm down so she didn't make a fool out of herself when the party finally kicked off. She edged between the vanity tables and mirrors, keeping one strained eye on her peacock feathers, lest someone should break them: her entire costume would be ruined if that happened. It had taken her hours to fix all the feathers on and it would be just like Nini to spite her by ripping them. 

She made it to the corridor without incident and laughed at the outrageous costumes of the girls rushing about: clowns, cats, fairies, pixies and birds of all descriptions flitted around her. She made her way through them, slowly edging past, cringing as her feathers scraped the wall. Suddenly, out of the colour spinning around her, a vision in white rounded the corridor's corner. Satine stopped and smiled: Aramanta. Her costume was similar to Satine's but in brilliant white. A white, feathered cap that almost seemed to glow in contrast to her skin covered her shining dark hair. She was talking to two other Veterans, in equally flamboyant costumes (a leopard and snake respectively), but smiled when she saw Satine. As they passed, she hung back, allowing her chatting companions to pull ahead of her. Her hand brushed Satine's hip and rested there lightly. She smiled, her neat teeth gleaming in the light.

"You look divine, dear," she whispered.

"So do you," replied Satine, feeling the now familiar rush of breathlessness and envy at Aramanta's natural grace. "You almost look like an angel."

Aramanta laughed prettily at this. "That's a shame," she said, dropping a wink. "I was going for swan." Satine laughed and kissed her on the cheek.

"Ari!" called an impatient voice. Aramanta shook her head and laughed.

"I have to go," she said, a touch of regret in her voice. "I'll see you after the show." She turned and began to walk away, calling, "have fun tonight!" before vanishing into the crowd.

"Well," said a voice behind Satine. She whirled and frowned at Nini: even with a mask on, there was no mistaking _that_ voice. "Look who's got herself friend in high-powered places."

Satine smiled sweetly. "Go away Nini. Finish putting on that costume of yours… Oh," she said in mock surprise, "is _that_ your costume?" She waved a hand over the simple black corset Nini was wearing. She shook her head and made a disapproving noise. "Some people went to a lot of effort tonight. And all you could be bothered to do is dye your bodice?" Nini opened her mouth furiously, but Satine turned her back to her, smiling smugly: it was so much more dramatic to turn your back to people when you had about fifty peacock feathers sticking out of your behind.

Satine now hurried through the crowd, eager to get to her position nice and early. Her thoughts were filled with images of carnivals and magic, diamonds the size of houses… and Aramanta. A smile touched her lips. It couldn't last: no affair with another Diamond Dog could last for long: the pressures of the Moulin Rouge tore them apart, or they moved on, or met someone else… But somehow none of that mattered. It was always a relief, after a long, rough day, to find yourself in a warm embrace with someone who actually cared about you, not how much you charged. Someone who listened and understood just how hard it was and that how no matter how much you tried to convince yourself that you at least _liked_ the man you were with, it never worked. Every time one of the men touched her, every kiss, every thrust, the same word repeated itself around Satine's head until she thought that she might scream – _whore, whore, always a whore, whore._

How different it was with Aramanta! It was always gentle and kind, never pressured. _Reassuring_, thought Satine, _that's what it is…_ It couldn't last forever. And Satine wasn't even sure if she _wanted_ it to last forever. But it was enough for now.

She stood in the darkness below the orchestra's balcony with the other Dogs, shivering in anticipation. Already, sounds of the party starting up were filtering through the mirrored doors. Harold Zidler's voice resonated across the dance hall and, exchanging an excited smile with the girl next to her, Satine raised her hands above her head and waited for their cue. 

"… Montmartre's fifth Annual Street Party! Prepare yourself, ladies and gentleman, for the celebration of a lifetime!"

The doors burst open, blinding her with the sudden light. Undeterred, she launched herself forward, shrieking with the other Dogs. They spread themselves out across the dance hall in a well-rehearsed formation, groups of men (and to a lesser extent, women) following them, eyes glued to the costumes. It was strangely liberating knowing that the people here tonight had almost no impression as to what Satine really looked like: all they saw was a glittering peacock. She was determined to make her mark tonight: it had cost her much blood, sweat and tears to make this costume, but encouragement from Aramanta and her own burning desire to prove that she was more, oh so much more, than the whore she had been cast in to had made it all worth while. Smiling, Satine reached down and pressed the little spring on her hip with her thumb. The people around her gasped with delight as the feathers unfolded perfectly and Satine crowed triumphantly, lifting her head towards the ceiling, where stagehands were throwing down bucketful's of confetti and glittered pieces of paper. She danced, whirling about and wiggled her bum at anyone who got to close. She was only going to be touched by one person tonight…

She didn't know how long she had been dancing for; it could have been minutes, it could have been hours. After all, time flies when you're having fun. That night was a whirl of colours and laughing faces, the sound of the orchestra and stamping feet and clapping hands… And then the sound of someone screaming. Satine paid no attention it at first, believing it to be nothing, along with most of the other partygoers. It was only when the orchestra began to trail off that she realised that something was wrong. She looked across the dance hall and saw an increasingly large crowd gathered near the centre. Someone shouted "fetch the doctor!" and another cried out "it's too late!" and then there was the wrenching sound of someone weeping. Satine walked towards the crowd, feeling her stomach cramp and tie itself in knots. 

"Who is it?" she asked, a little desperately. "What's happened?" 

"Ari." Satine froze, only aware of the sound of rushing blood in her ears. Between the feet of the crowd she saw an abundance of white feathers. She pushed forwards and cried out, covering her mouth when her eyes confirmed what she already knew. The dead woman's eyes were half-open, her head lying a little awkwardly. Satine desperately wanted to straighten that head and open those eyes, kiss some life into those lips. But it was too late. She knew that. 

"Consumption," someone whispered.

"Who was close to her?" asked someone else. "They should be checked…"

Satine didn't want to stay to hear anymore. She turned, caught a fleeting glance of Nini's face, a strange mix of sympathy and contempt, and fled the dance hall. She ignored the murmurs that followed and ripped off her mask, cursing the feathers that restricted her movement and stumbling over her heels in her haste to get out of the hot, bright room.

She didn't remember getting to the dressing room and locking the door, or even sitting down at the mirror: the next thing she remembered was gazing at her own reflection again. Her eyes looked slick and flickered in the smoky light of the dressing room. Her costume, her make up… It looked so unreal now. She had a mad desire to rip the costume and scrub her face till the make up was completely gone and she bled.

Blood…. She shut her eyes and pressed her hand to her lips. Aramanta's kisses… They had always tasted like peppermint and lilac, like flowers and fresh air, breathing into Satine the pieces of her soul that she had lost. Until recently, when they'd been tinged by… _It couldn't have been_, thought Satine. But what else tasted like iron and salt? A lingering residue of the slow kiss of death… Satine shivered, remembering the times she'd seen her lover cough and wipe her mouth with a handkerchief. The neat way she had folded the cloth when she had finished, quickly concealing it in the folds of her dress. _Oh god_, thought Satine_. Did she know? If she knew why didn't she see the doctor? _

Maybe the doctor didn't want to see her.

Satine shook her head, trying to banish these thoughts. Aramanta was dead: no amount of "what if's" or "maybe's" could change that now. She buried her head in her hands. She'd known the affair wouldn't last. But did it have to end so soon? Already a terrible ache of loneliness was filling her. Aramanta had been the only person at the Moulin Rouge she'd… loved? Yes, it was love, or at the very least close to it. How could you not love someone who comforted you, held your hand as you wept, stroked your hair and kissed you in such a way that everything seemed… not better, but tolerable? What else could you call someone who did that but lover? 

She looked narrowly at her reflection. When she'd been younger (younger, had she ever been that naïve?) she'd held the strange belief that every lover she would have would remain within her somehow: that she'd be able to look closely at her eyes and see them there, smiling and waving. Of course, working at the Moulin Rouge had soon buried that idea, but as Satine scrutinised her reflection she thought that something was different. There was no little doll-like Ari smiling back at her. It was nothing as simple as that. She turned her head from side to side and then shrugged and winked. The mirror girl turned, shrugged and winked back, her movements seemingly more graceful and fluid than they had been that morning… It was as if the poise and elegance that she had so admired in Aramanta had been transmuted to her.

__

Or maybe you just picked it up from her. You were close, very close, too close. You just picked up some of her habits, that's all. Nothing special or magical about that.

Unbelievably, Satine heard the sound of the band starting up again. She looked up incredulously. _The show must go on_. But… Aramanta had _died_. What was the Annual Street Party compared to that. She flushed with anger at this apparent show of disrespect to the graceful Veteran. And yet – she remembered Aramanta helping her sew feathers onto her peacock costume.

"_You'll sparkle, Satine_," she'd smiled. "_You'll look beautiful…"_

"_I'll never be as graceful as you_."

"_But you must!"_ cried Ari, raising her eyebrows. "_You must be graceful, and sparkling and all the rest of it_." Sly smile. "_How else are you to afford your diamond as big as the Moulin Rouge?" _Laughter and smiles. A gentle kiss.

Satine sat up a little straighter and wiped her eyes carefully, trying not to smudge her mascara. Woodenly, she pulled her mask up over her eyes again and smoothed her hair back carefully.

The show must go on.

Satine glided back out onto the dance floor; she must have been staring at her reflection for a very long time, for the Moulin was almost completely empty, the band playing to an audience of no more than a dozen. Something caught her eye on the floor. A white feather, lying abandoned. _It might not be one of hers_, she reasoned_. Lots of people are wearing feathers tonight. But still_… Slowly, Satine bent and picked up the feather, running her finger across its edge carefully. She tucked it conscientiously in the back of her hair bun. She knew that it must have looked faintly ridiculous but found that she did not care. She lifted her head higher and strode out across the hall, heels clacking smartly on the lacquered floor, her eyes fixed on the outside door and the garden. 

Coloured lights had been strung down the street. In what felt like no time at all, Satine was once again in the centre of the crowd and dancing. For the first time, all eyes were on Satine as she danced that night. Even the other Diamond Dogs paused and whispered behind their hands to each other: _what's she doing? She's taken something. She's possessed. _Mean eyes glared at Satine, but she didn't notice. Even if she had seen, she wouldn't have cared. As far as she was concerned there was only the music and her own lithe body sweeping across Montmartre, the Peacock paying tribute to the Swan.

* * * * * * *


End file.
